tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67905728096716199052024-03-24T00:09:54.111-07:00Sweet Liberia, Lessons From the CoalpotThis blog recounts my personal growth and reflections gained during the 11 years (1979-1990) that Liberia was my home. My family fled during the Liberian Civil War, but the Republic of Liberia remains an important part of my life and my story. I use this medium to inform my readers.Ahnydahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759831640387657168noreply@blogger.comBlogger32125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790572809671619905.post-74843996330798993382014-06-20T21:37:00.000-07:002014-06-20T21:37:13.366-07:00Color: Dark Skinned or Light Skinned is Always With Us<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The issue of skin color is an issue in America and while we may not realize it, there is a similar controversy in parts of Africa, India, Asia. I try really hard not to generalize but when you look around color is a real definer that human beings use against one another.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In the 1980's I remember being at an Indian fashion Show in Liberia and there were clearly differences between the light skinned East Indian women and dark skinned East Indians. The history tells that the darker skinned Indians are akin to Africans.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There are dark and light skinned Italians, Mexicans, Puerto Ricans, and I could go on and on.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I was checking on You Tube for Liberian Music for my Face Book Page because I love Liberian Music and I came across this music video by Jessica Singh. I would guess that she is the mixed race girl of Liberian and East Indian heritage. The tune is catchy but the imagery is the same. The comments were interesting.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Anyway, here is the video and comment if you dare. I am not judging, just offering this as a discussion piece for rational persons.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>My question is why does color still matter? </b>We now know scientifically that DNA, not color defines our ethnicity, and yet we still cling to color. Don't we?</span><br />
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<br />Ahnydahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759831640387657168noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790572809671619905.post-15792170223608821532014-05-25T04:30:00.001-07:002014-05-25T04:30:51.353-07:00All Heal Sweet Liberia Heal!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/hUkAwehLPMc?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>EACH TIME </b>I think of Liberia, the country that hosted my spiritual growth for 11 years, I FEEL. There is feeling and then there is FEELING. There is so much about my experiences in Liberia that could not be shared in my memoir, Sweet Liberia, Lessons from the Coal Pot and yet it is here, buried beneath my life in America. Because my sojourn in Liberia was as much spiritual as it was physical, in many ways I am still there. It is akin to the feeling that one has when a person you love has died. And by no means do I intend to say that Liberia is dead, only that she is buried so deeply in my soul that I am forever connected, even though I am not physically IN Liberia. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This video, of reconstruction efforts, depicts the rebuilding of the physical infrastructure of Liberia. I know the bond between my soul and Liberia is still strong because when I heard the chorus of voices in the video, I wept. I can't explain why, but when you see the video, if you weep or feel 'it', you will understand. If you experience the video and don't feel anything, there are no words I can give you that will cause you to understand. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Earlier this week I posted a video on my <b>Sweet Liberia, Lessons from the Coal Pot </b>page on Facebook that depicts the rampant use of little girls as sexual objects, as rape victims and prostitutes who sell their bodies to support their families. This is a paradox. On the one hand there must be the rebuilding of infrastructure. Buildings, lights, water, services, roads, a business economy, and more are needed if Liberia is to rise from the dust. However, the Liberia my family fled in 1990 is hardly the Liberia that exists today. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">To be sure, there are feverish efforts in Liberia to reconstruct the spirits of the Liberian people, but it is so much easier to rebuild physical infrastructure than it is to reconstruct a society wrecked by 14 years of Civil War. How long does it take to reconstruct the souls of the broken and contorted spirits of a people. To revitalize the characteristic kindness, congeniality, and optimism of the Liberian people. How Long?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My mind's eye still treasures the pictures of my Liberia, the Liberia I was spiritually awakened in, as a vision of what CAN be healed and restored. Healing IS possible.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>All Heal Sweet Liberia Heal!</b></span><br />
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Ahnydahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759831640387657168noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790572809671619905.post-89093488221754585652013-12-26T13:38:00.000-08:002013-12-26T14:37:18.784-08:00The Seven Principles of Kwanzaa Empower
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsvb0QHKspYS-wWQc7ICb8czZ1sD0Xpz6S38W-JvHQEC6ScTm8cJQ8g8kIUvU4JQMdmFozcTTtYZgpFAdjBHnaL38Xh00TBxvsMP05jGol9L3fJmbQA-Q6M3oaZbpMZPI-QWtYipQHTgr1/s1600/Kwanzaa+symbols.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsvb0QHKspYS-wWQc7ICb8czZ1sD0Xpz6S38W-JvHQEC6ScTm8cJQ8g8kIUvU4JQMdmFozcTTtYZgpFAdjBHnaL38Xh00TBxvsMP05jGol9L3fJmbQA-Q6M3oaZbpMZPI-QWtYipQHTgr1/s1600/Kwanzaa+symbols.jpg" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">December 26, 2013<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Looking forward…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">KWANZAA IS AN EMPOWERING TRADITION<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As we begin another year of life physical form, it’s good to
center on some principles that are non-denominational and can apply to spirits
of any belief system. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="text-transform: uppercase;"><strong>Unity</strong></span>-</span><i><span style="color: green; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><a href="http://www.holidays.net/kwanzaa/principles.htm#umoja"><span style="color: #159824; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><span style="color: #444444; font-size: x-small;">Umoja</span></span></a></span></i><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="color: #444444; font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">(oo-MOH-jah)</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">: </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">This is the first principle of
Kwanzaa and rather than restate information that is more fully covered at this
Kwanzaa website - <a href="http://www.holidays.net/kwanzaa/index.htm">http://www.holidays.net/kwanzaa/index.htm</a>, I offer a “quick
and dirty” definition that Kwanzaa is an African American tradition founded on
an east African concept of Harvesting of the First Fruits.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Simply, Unity for me means intending to come together <u>always</u>
rather than giving energy to any kind of separation. Practicing a principle means
that we work on it when it’s comfortable and we <u>try</u> even when Unity is
challenging. For instance, in our good clean clothes, strive to see that we are
in unison with the homeless, drug addicted, the gun-shooters, because they,
like us, were created in the image and likeness of the Creator. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="text-transform: uppercase;"><strong>Kujichagulia</strong></span>-</span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">is the 2nd principle of Kwanzaa - </span><i><span style="color: green; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><a href="http://www.holidays.net/kwanzaa/principles.htm#kujichagulia"><span style="color: #159824; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><span style="color: black;">Kujichagulia</span></span></a></span></i><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">(koo-jee-chah-goo-LEE-ah)</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: </span><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Self-Determination. <span style="color: black;">I have always taken that to mean independence. Personal
responsibility for my actions and their accompanying reactions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Setting goals for myself outside of the
expectations of others and being consistent in propelling myself toward the
finish line. It’s persisting through the long haul.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="text-transform: uppercase;"><strong>Ujima</strong></span>-</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">the 3rd principle of
Kwanzaa - </span><i><span style="color: green; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><a href="http://www.holidays.net/kwanzaa/principles.htm#ujima"><span style="color: #159824; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><span style="background-color: black; font-size: x-small;">Ujima</span></span></a></span></i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="background-color: black;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">(oo-JEE-mah)</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: </span><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Collective work and
responsibility.<span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I love it when a group of people can work together around a plan, each taking
responsibility for holding up their “end” and catching any balls that seem to
be dropping, whether they are yours or not. This is commitment to a collective
agenda! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ujima is team play, whether it’s
in a family committed to helping on another achieve their goals, or a productive
work team, hard<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I</span>-working faith team or an effective block club. If one reflects
on the meaning of, “the whole is greater than the sum of its parts,” you can
probably find examples of Ujima in your life. Let’s work more collectively in
2014!<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="text-transform: uppercase;"><strong>Ujamaa</strong></span>-</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This represents the 4th principle of Kwanzaa - </span><i><span style="color: green; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><a href="http://www.holidays.net/kwanzaa/principles.htm#ujamaa"><span style="color: #159824; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Ujamaa</span></a></span></i><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">(oo-jah-MAH)</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: </span><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Collective economics.<span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This principal that speaks to as a
community of consumers, supporting with our dollars, institutions that value
and support and appreciate us! According to Nielsen Research <a href="http://callandpost.com/news/2013/oct/03/2013-nielsen-report-materials/">http://callandpost.com/news/2013/oct/03/2013-nielsen-report-materials/</a>
African Americans spend annually, and yet, corporations that we support don’t
recognize that power by spending with our African American owned agencies and
businesses. Money can bring power when used with the intention of the empowerment
of our community. Once we have knowledge we also have responsibility to ACT. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="text-transform: uppercase;"><strong>Nia-</strong></span> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">5th principle of Kwanzaa - </span><i><span style="color: green; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><a href="http://www.holidays.net/kwanzaa/principles.htm#nia"><span style="color: #159824; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;">Nia</span></span></a></span></i><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">(NEE-ah) </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">is </span><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Purpose.
Whoami and Whyamihere? <span style="color: black;">This principal speaks to
having a greater reason for your life than existence and the production of
off-spring. When we reflect on the lives of people that we revere; our
spiritual leaders, and heroes, we can see that we value, and in some instances
worship them for who they were and what they did. I submit that some of us are
purposed by our Creator to be way-showers and others are purposed to follow the
way they are being shown. Personally, I don’t believe any soul was given existence
to be worshiped, but I do believe some souls were sent to lead by pointing us
in a direction that we should follow. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Purpose is about finding out who you are and why
you were given life and then searching for what are purposed to DO to earn our
space on the planet, “pressing toward the higher call.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; text-transform: uppercase;"><strong>Kuumba</strong></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">- This
represents the 6th principle of Kwanzaa - </span><i><span style="color: green; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><a href="http://www.holidays.net/kwanzaa/principles.htm#kuumba"><span style="color: #159824; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;">Kuumba</span></span></a></span></i><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">(koo-OOM-bah)</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">: </span><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Creativity.
<span style="color: black;">Thinking about how to use each and every situation,
adversity, and blessing and encounter to make your life and the lives of others
better. Creating beauty with our words, as we speak possibility over situations
that appear less than ideal. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; text-transform: uppercase;"><strong>Faith</strong></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> - This
represents the 7th principle of Kwanzaa - </span><i><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><a href="http://www.holidays.net/kwanzaa/principles.htm#imani"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Imani</span></a></span></i><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">
</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">(ee-MAH-nee)</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">: </span><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Faith.
Such a magnificent and personal principle. Faith to me means that despite the “appearance”
of a situation on the News, on a health test, in a community, in a
relationship, faith demands that we see everything as the Creator sees it,
perfect, whole and complete, always affirming the best outcome for situations.
We have to exercise and “flex” our faith muscles so that we weaken fear. We
acknowledge that whatever we give our attention to multiplies. So if we feel
weakened in a situation we AFFIRM our power because in affirming power and
dominion we are calling forth from the Universe that which we want to give
value to!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">This does not mean we ignore a physician's
health prescription or the guidance toward financial prudence, but that we use FAITH while DOING
all we can to move ourselves to a better place.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Ahnydahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759831640387657168noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790572809671619905.post-37923090706280202772013-07-08T16:02:00.000-07:002013-07-08T16:02:11.602-07:00Clever DisguisesI was speaking with an old friend today; a friend that I have known since I was an idealistic twenty-something. We had been through the end of the 60’s, the hopeful 70’s, 80’s, 90’s and onto a new millennium. This morning, while a downpour kept me from weeding my garden, we reflected upon the fact that nothing has changed…not really and that sometimes the labels we give things change but we need to look more deeply into the TRUTH of what they are.<br />
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For instance, I lived in Liberia, West Africa for 11 years and escaped during the early months of the tragic Liberian Civil War. People call that heroic, I certainly didn’t feel hero-ish. What I felt like was a person responding in the best way possible to protect my family. And while that experience, at least on the surface, seemed unique at the time; I don’t see what happens in West Africa and South Africa worlds apart from the happenings on the West Side and the South Side of Chicago.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg02p9uBqO_QZKSte3MGtiJLpS2U5EfvqIgAP9woKIi1NG4ZEvs8-iwVSnn23nIF48U-Qo2zy7sntDH3SXMJhwdoo5o7_jPv8cEMIhOWQGv8hRfU6qvhdJJx8LJrmV3M0L4HmskBy0IS3B4/s1600/Slaves_in_chains.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="125" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg02p9uBqO_QZKSte3MGtiJLpS2U5EfvqIgAP9woKIi1NG4ZEvs8-iwVSnn23nIF48U-Qo2zy7sntDH3SXMJhwdoo5o7_jPv8cEMIhOWQGv8hRfU6qvhdJJx8LJrmV3M0L4HmskBy0IS3B4/s200/Slaves_in_chains.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhrCmdQflnHl6oV2j6G0gkTNuOoRrUZlX2bLyXpSdq9JxjiEh5tKZPNmfZOV0ycv20ibGaMulDj41DeZy9yc2Gk6PtVtxAOrvCF51sMzhDDUvS02ZMItmvbwerHD7ZP7gTp0v54fCgttbI/s1600/slavery_usa03-18-2008b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhrCmdQflnHl6oV2j6G0gkTNuOoRrUZlX2bLyXpSdq9JxjiEh5tKZPNmfZOV0ycv20ibGaMulDj41DeZy9yc2Gk6PtVtxAOrvCF51sMzhDDUvS02ZMItmvbwerHD7ZP7gTp0v54fCgttbI/s1600/slavery_usa03-18-2008b.jpg" /></a></div>
Is there really a difference between the disregard for the development of “ethnic” human capital in Liberia and colonial South Africa to what is happening to youth in Chicago, particularly on the South and West Sides? HOW can the crime rate be at its lowest in 14 years according the superintendent of police, while residents of the South and West Sides of the city live in constant fear? That not only points to, it screams, at something deep and systemic that needs addressing. More police can’t fix this.
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By systemic I mean, the school <b>system</b>, the social services <b>system</b>, the <b>system</b> of state, county, city government and the criminal 'just us' <b>system</b> need fixing.
I would submit that what is happening on the West and South Sides of Chicago (and elsewhere among people of darker hues and lower class) are really cups of “the same soup being poured deceptively into different bowls.”<br />
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I am DONE TALKING.
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What I have decided to DO is:
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1. to snitch on anyone hurting my community that I’m aware of<br />
2. to continue to inspire and educate my older children and to support them in raising my grands
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3. to work with others that want to reclaim the south side community that I call home
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4. to help the young men that live nearest to me to find a better path forward
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Perhaps crime will continue to rise (on the South and West Sides of the City), and perhaps our children will continue to be fed into the system of slavery that is cleverly disguised as the criminal “justice” system. But at least I will be able to rest my head on my pillow at night knowing that I DID what I felt capable of DOING.
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For every person that reads this post, I would challenge you to look into your life and decide not what you can say, but what you are willing to DO.
Ahnydahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759831640387657168noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790572809671619905.post-75460360509466604682013-03-10T11:04:00.000-07:002013-03-10T11:04:19.556-07:00Leap Forward...Alone!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGfzrCIdtvUNUCc8em3_1JQstJA46j0dOmic38cIpwcUaQzZMb1PTzX1gVkGOVmgF12ie29LQAjYNeApKTgWvFa2WOTCYkzq_T5U0ZAJvtzG4fkVp3Vl87rR7riNBudwa-6avddS0alh5D/s1600/photo+from+coopers+hawk.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGfzrCIdtvUNUCc8em3_1JQstJA46j0dOmic38cIpwcUaQzZMb1PTzX1gVkGOVmgF12ie29LQAjYNeApKTgWvFa2WOTCYkzq_T5U0ZAJvtzG4fkVp3Vl87rR7riNBudwa-6avddS0alh5D/s320/photo+from+coopers+hawk.JPG" /></a>
The idea for this blog entry stems from a text I got from one of my daughters last night asking simply, “Can you skate?” Wise sage that I am, I saw beyond the simplicity of the inquiry to my daughter’s wish to find a fun activity and someone with which to share this activity.
I responded, “yes I do skate a bit, do any of your friends skate?” The answer was “no.” Now I hear the real issue which is “Mom, there is something I think I want to try, but I’m nervous about doing it alone. Bingo!
My sons each have their own hobbies. One is an inventor, and car refurbisher, the other is an accomplished body builder. But, alas, my three daughters inherited my shyness DNA. This blog is for them.
Even as I approach the mid-point of my sixth decade, I totally understand the desire to have a companion, a road-dog, a sister friend, a partner, as you uncover life’s delights. Women, at least some of us, like to do things together and tend to avoid doing activities alone. Haven’t you noticed that we often go to the bathroom to tinkle, hair-comb and reapply our makeup together!
However, I have learned to follow where my inner voice leads, even when I have to do it alone. The funny thing is I’ve always found friends along the way.
In the 70’s as an aspiring young poet, I wanted to take writing /acting lessons and there was no peer support. I moved ahead and landed in the inaugural class of Ebony Talent Theater(renamed eTA), and in that artistic incubator, found mentors in Harold Okoro Washington, Walter Bradford, and friendship in artist/thespian and eta creative director Runako Jahai, and fellow writer Dexter Johnson. Relationships that shaped my creative life.
The lynchpin for my book, Sweet Liberia, Lessons from the Coal Pot, came from reaching out in 1980 in Liberia, to work for the Liberian National Red Cross, outside of the safety and comfort of the African Hebrew Israelite Foundation, the group through which I came to Liberia. It meant embracing the challenge of working alone in the Liberian community for over 10 years. Again, my inner voice as my north star, provided me a life enriching opportunity.
Around 2004, when I wanted to take riding lessons, my friends were not interested. So off I went alone on an enchanting six lesson journey to feeling very comfortable around horses. That was not an area of mastery for me but I know that if I choose to focus on riding, I’d enjoy it.
There have been many instances when no one else was interested in things I wanted to do. Somehow, even though I was reluctant, often fearful,I ventured forward alone. I’ve tried tennis, became a runner, learned to step, and even most recently, developed a passion for swimming.
When I think of how uneventful and frustrating my life would have been without each one of those side trips I cringe.
So to my daughter(s) and to anyone who hesitates to take a journey that their inner voice has placed in their heart, for fear of taking the journey alone, I say take a chance! Journal about that journey, savor your bravery, and finally, reflect upon the power being willing to walk a path alone brings to your life. Leap forward, even if you have to do it alone!
visit my website at <a href="http://www,sweetliberia.com">www.sweetliberia.com</a> or purchase my book on <a href="http://wwww.amazon.com">www.amazon.com</a>Ahnydahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759831640387657168noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790572809671619905.post-12821218566183528452012-11-25T16:35:00.002-08:002012-11-25T16:35:28.422-08:00GIVING THANKS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>SOMETIMES</b> you need the luxury of time to realize just how far you have come. November 24, Black Friday, as others were shopping for deals I realized I finally had sufficient time to comb through my junky basement and organize the tools, paint cans, assorted hardware and boxes of books, ceramic dishware, personal writings and photographs that form the substance and clutter of my life.
I made three piles:
•Items for the trash
•Items for donation to the Salvation Army
•Items precious enough to keep.
I found myself reliving some wonderful poetry that I had written several years before and found that years later it still touched my hears and reminded me of a delightful experience that I had lived or lived through. <b>KEEP</b>.
I found the old water pump for my boiler and college term papers. <b>TOSS</b>.
I came across books that I had purchased and would never read and books that I had used extensively with marked up and folded pages. <b>DONATE</b>.
And in the midst of the boxes I had packed up and removed from my kitchen years ago I found five boxes of beautiful white ceramic formal dinnerware of assorted sizes that had been given to me from the Salvation Army.
August 1990 we had been repatriaated to America after eleven years in Liberia. April 1st, 1991 we moved into our own home with donated cots, a few items of clothing from the resale store and the joy of being together.
The dinnerware set about a chain of memories that helped me to remember what having nothing really means, or does not.
<b>AFTER</b> months of living in fear in Liberia, we had finally escaped to the American Embassy, been taken to Sierra Leone and then repatriated to New York (read my book “Sweet Liberia, Lessons from the Coal Pot,” if you want to know how and why we got out of Liberia in the first place).
When we got to New York I had $10.00 U.S. That was all the money we had in the world. As we waited at JFK Airport for a connecting flight to Chicago’s O’Hare airport, the three bedraggled children that repatriated with me from war torn Liberia saw an ice cream vendor and their brown eyes looked at me without asking. The logical response for a woman with only a $10 dollar hole card would have been “NO.”
However, my babies had survived a war, they had lived with the sound of gunfire as their lullaby, toted water on their heads while hearing gunfire in the distance. They had shared their food with a friend starving from malaria. They had left behind everything they knew in the world, except me. In that moment I knew that my children deserved security, safety, love, and they damn sure deserved ice cream. I took not only our last money, but our ONLY money and bought us Ice cream!
<b>TWENTY-TWO</b> years later, we are all in such a different place. My five children, the three that repatriated with me and the two that had come ahead of us, are wonderful productive adults with beautiful, smart children of their own. My family is blessed in measurable and immeasurable ways.
Black Friday, as I combed through my basement, it brought sheer joy to my heart to label those five boxes of cherished white ceramic plates; plates upon which I had served my family and friends, <b>DONATE</b>.
<b>I AM THANKFUL</b> to be able to return the dishes and many other items to the Salvation Army to provide to others who will need them. To God Be the Glory.
visit my website at www.sweetliberia.com
Ahnydahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759831640387657168noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790572809671619905.post-85275708550405306042012-08-04T07:18:00.000-07:002012-08-04T07:18:37.052-07:00Liberian Independance Day-A PerspectiveSaturday, August 4, 2012
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As the woman who has lived in Liberia, West Africa for eleven years and the author of "Sweet Liberia, Lessons from the Coal Pot", a 318 page memoir about that life, I have a close and fairly unique vantage point of Liberia.
As a matter of fact, I was born on the south side of Chicago at a Catholic Hospital that no longer exists and if it did, they would be chasing my daddy to pay for my birth because, as my mother tells it, my dad sneaked us out without ever paying the bill! He was a wonderful, adventurous man, but, well, bill paying wasn't his thing.
But I digress, the point of this post is that I'm going to claim the right to speak a bit about Liberia because after living and working and bearing three of my children there, I have put something good into that pot. Some of my Liberian friends may be annoyed by what I'm going to say next, but friends speak the truth to friends, or else they are not really friends.
I see the civil turmoil, ignorance, poverty and lack of economic development that the President of Liberia, Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, is struggling to overcome and it seems so simple to me that Liberians, in the interest of progress need to find a way to overcome the bitter divisions that led to a war that began in December of 1989 with a 'rebel incursion' and spun into a horrific civil war, from which Liberia is struggling to recover. There is much work that needs to be done to help Liberia and I know many Liberians and Americans who feel that way. But, but the plain truth is that the greatest barrier to Liberia's rise is Liberians!
With a Liberian community in Chicago of thousands, the Community would not, come together to host a unified Liberian Independence Day celebration. There was a celebration hosted by the Liberian Community Association of Illinois (LCAI) in one part of town and another hosted by the Organization of the Liberian Community in Illinois (OICI) in another part of town. Last year when I learned there were two celebrations, I was a good soldier and hauled my daughter and her Liberian partner to both celebrations. I'm not saying that there can't be two celebrations, but I don't get a sense of Unity and cooperation between the two groups. Whenever I ask my Liberian friends about the division I get a polite answer that shifts the discord to the other group and the responsibility to bring unity elsewhere.
This year as I was preparing myself to attend both Liberian Independence Day Celebrations I stopped in my tracks and just could not do it! If we can't create a vision of UNITY here in Chicago, how can we ever expect to see that out pictured in Liberia?
I have great respect for the leadership of both groups. They have lovingly embraced me as their sister, validated my experiences in Liberia and helped me feel a part of a beloved community. I care for them very much and so I say to my friends in both groups, "having different goals and a different focus is sometimes necessary, but not working collaboratively to create an event that lifts the celebration of your countries Independence Day to a higher more dignified level, not setting the example of UNITY is, in my opinion, just plain wrong.
I'd be happy to have Liberians push back on me here, I actually invite it because I'm not judging, I'm seeking information. Last Saturday, as the Republic of Liberia celebrated its <b>165th day of Independence </b>in two separate gatherings in Chicago, I lamented the fact that with the thousands of talented Liberians in Chicago a really unified effort around this important day, could make a splash in this city! A multi-day event that could command television news coverage, perhaps featuring a cultural extravaganza, showcase West African Cuisine, offer a day or two of seminars on investment in Liberia, showcase the reports of various successful development efforts in Liberia, draw Liberians from other parts of the country, and reenergize the Liberian community spiritually. But an event like that would take UNITY.
On behalf of myself and my family I will say that I will not attend another separate Liberian Independence Day event in Chicago.Ahnydahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759831640387657168noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790572809671619905.post-88230241291881140142012-02-19T12:38:00.000-08:002012-02-19T13:00:04.772-08:00What is a Global Life?One of my important long-range goals is to ultimately have a Global Life. That to me means learning another language and feeling comfortable traveling back and forth between this country and other countries to do some work.<br /><br />To me embracing a global life is different than taking a vacation to an exotic destination. It means figuring out how to make a contribution here (in the U.S) and also in another country. I've not figured out what that means, but I am clear that broader solutions are always stickier that the 'black and white' truths we often come up with, and I have some time to ponder the idea. <br /><br />I'm sure that many others have an idea of what a globally relevant life is. I'm interested to have you share your thoughts.Ahnydahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759831640387657168noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790572809671619905.post-7291294129765049732012-01-01T14:28:00.000-08:002012-01-01T14:52:32.509-08:00Box of Chocolates...What's Next!I will take a few words from Forest Gump and say that, "Life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you are going to get."<br /><br />That's so true. January 1, 1990 I was absolutely convinced that I was going to be able to remain in Liberia, West Africa, despite the fact that Charles Taylor and his army of 'rebels' had crossed over into Liberia and were fighting their way towards Monrovia, Liberia's capital. Then, I was sure that my future and the future of my 5 children lay in Liberia. In the school we were building, in the life we were planning. However, that was not the case. I eight months I would be once again living on the South side of Chicago, looking for my daily bread. <br /><br />August 8, 1990 I got one of my many wake up calls proving to me that life is always changing and to be successful and happy you/we/all must change with life. I could have refused to leave Liberia, because after all, I HAD A PLAN! or I could do as my spirit led me... submit and go with the plan that my God had for me and my family. That plan, once I got in tune, brought us out of an escalating Civil War, through armed check points and rocket blasts, safely back into the arms of my loving family and friends. I am so very blessed to have listened to God's plan. One of my favorite thoughts about change and seeking to understand, comes from a song that jazz singer Dianne Reeves sings, "Be Still, Stand In Love, Pay Attention." Blessings for the New Year.Ahnydahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759831640387657168noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790572809671619905.post-40456285998874969812011-11-27T07:11:00.000-08:002011-11-27T12:09:28.068-08:00FREE Chapter of Sweet Liberia<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipKed1SVbgrBVBJeFGQNZFYjJOx0OvGox8iXXdheptzQ-oX0fNaFFYnr3QAVl0Rv5X8eZvTfmcvybe6ZqusS_YGKnjG57JWNpHO58yr_gm-h_nec4J3KSEnP1L9PIkTV2S6QwSn2wOoVJj/s1600/front+cover+art%252C+Sweet+Liberia.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 227px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipKed1SVbgrBVBJeFGQNZFYjJOx0OvGox8iXXdheptzQ-oX0fNaFFYnr3QAVl0Rv5X8eZvTfmcvybe6ZqusS_YGKnjG57JWNpHO58yr_gm-h_nec4J3KSEnP1L9PIkTV2S6QwSn2wOoVJj/s320/front+cover+art%252C+Sweet+Liberia.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5679770182695090706" /></a><br /><strong>Beginning At The End</strong><br /><br /><strong>August 8, 1990, Liberia West Africa </strong><br /><br /><br /><strong>M</strong>assive Embassy gates clanged shut behind us. My heart filled with joy. In several weary steps, my family and others with the good fortune of surviving the trip to the American Embassy in Liberia, had instantly been transported from the barbaric civil war in West Africa, to the United States of America. Throngs of starving, ragged, and terrified Liberians, along with Africans from various tribes, clamored outside the gates. I could only say a prayer for them. <br /><br />I am not sure what made me—maybe the adrenaline from fear and anxiety—but I looked up, and out of a dozen faces, I focused keenly on one particular marine perched on the perimeter wall of the Embassy. I was struck that he looked more like a red-faced teenager than a soldier. In the next instant, I saw him transform from a relaxed young man into a man preparing for battle. A shrill alert blared from the siren, his eyes widened and jaw hardened. The sound of speeding jeeps and machine gun fire permeated the air. The rebels were boldly attacking the Embassy of the United States of America!<br /><br />Instinctively we hit the ground. Crawling along the concrete walkway toward the U.S. Consulate’s office was no easy task. The sound of machine gunfire assailed our eardrums. When all was quiet, only the coppery smell of spent ammo prevailed, we received the “all clear” and rose cautiously. <br />“Ms. Rahm!” <br />I spun around coming face to face with Ray, a Peace Corps worker once assigned to the Liberian National Red Cross. Today, he was dressed in civilian clothes, but wore a sidearm and the hardened gaze of a man accustomed to killing. Secretly, I had always believed he was CIA. Grinning, he revealed the familiar cracked front tooth as he waved a quick hello. Dazed at seeing him out of context, but relieved at the renewed feeling of safety, I feigned a smile. <br /><br />Once inside the U.S. Embassy Consulate’s office, he lingered, personally expediting our group’s paperwork. His rank spared us the bureaucratic cruelty of repatriation, ordering that my children and I were not to be separated under any circumstances. <em>Good never loss.</em> I reflected upon the Liberian adage which, simply put, means the good you do comes back to you. <br /><br />Ray had been a complete asshole as a Peace Corps worker. Supposedly, he had been stationed at the Red Cross Headquarters in Liberia to help develop additional revenue flow to confront our ever- growing financial problems. He came in like a whirlwind and was quickly promoted to Senior Staff where his brashness and lack of tact wreaked havoc on everyone’s nerves. Yet, whenever he visited the Red Cross Day Care Center, he seemed to transform into a softie, displaying a gentle, patient attitude. I was the Director of the Center, and during the children’s naptime, he would often stop by my office to sit and express his frustration with Liberia and its people. We would chat about the things we missed about good ole America, a place I had secretly vowed to leave behind forever.<br /> <br />Today, Ray’s face and squinting brown eyes brought a feeling of relief and gratitude for his influence. <br />Ray, with my youngest daughter in his arms, led my bedraggled family to the ocean side of the Embassy. <br />“Well, now I know the answer to why you aren’t married, dude,” I quipped. <br />“Yep, war is what I do.” <br />“So what now?” <br />“I’m on my way to Somalia,” he said, instinctively feeling for his holster. Our final words were clipped short as two C-130 military helicopters landed, making the palm trees bow low and our clothing blow against our bodies. As we boarded, I looked back one last time and thanked him from the bottom of my heart. <br /><br />The copter crew was swift, outfitting us with helmets to protect our ears from the deafening sound of the propeller blades slicing through the humid air. Relieved and unafraid, I peered through the portals as we took off, looking down on the ground and then the ocean below. It was unlike any experience my children ever had, but then the last few months had been full of uncertainty, most of it terrifying. My youngest son, Zefron, dressed in a yellow and black Haywood Academy uniform that complimented his honey hued skin, sat wide-eyed, scanning the inside of the copter. The gunner, positioned to squelch enemy ground fire, added to the surreal effect. <br /><br />In moments, we were flying over the Atlantic Ocean. A crewmember mentioned that two rescue copters would be making multiple trips to airlift delinquent refugees out of Liberia that day. I was grateful that Ray had used his influence to enable my family to leave together since that was not always the case. A woman and her son were huddled across from me, he seemed like just a baby compared my children. The child gagged, then vomited, perhaps from motion sickness, but more than likely from fear; while my girls, EliTikvah and Zevah, sat poised. I could only wonder what they were thinking. <br /><br />This morning they had risen, like any other day, with the sun shining through their window of our cozy home on Chubor Road. Would that be the last time they slept in their beds in the place they had called home for so long? Where would we go from here? What was in store for our futures? War had changed us. War had changed everything. <br /><br />Occasionally one of my children would look around; anxiety in their dark brown eyes, and in the tense set of their young shoulders. “Are you all right, baby?” I would ask. They would nod and all would be fine until their next anxious moment.<br /><br />Sitting in the copter, I bore the full burden of my decision to remain in Liberia when all other American citizens, including my eldest son, daughter, and granddaughter, had been evacuated two months prior. How had it come to this? Amidst the relief I felt for my family, I also harbored deep feelings of remorse and shame for leaving friends behind, including “Ma Seeton” who had been like a mother to me; my granddaughter’s father; my business partner; and Chris, who was so much like a son to me. <br /><br />Several months earlier, Liberians listened by candlelight to a man describing the fate of their beloved country. Rumors abounded that a U.S. submarine was harbored off the coast of Liberia. The people hoped and prayed that America would intervene in the war and spare their country, colonized by free Blacks from America in 1821, from a Civil War that would catapult it backwards fifty years. However, trouble had erupted in the Middle East and America rushed to protect its oil interest in the Persian Gulf, turning its back on its friend, Liberia. Now months later, I closed my eyes and thought of the ancient Ghanaian symbol, ‘Gname,’ that means, “No one knows the beginning or ending of anything except God.” For the remainder of the helicopter ride, I repeated the mantra over and over, trying to find a sense of peace, which would take years to come.<br />________________________________________________________<br />Sweet Liberia, Lessons from the Coal Pot is for sale at online bookstores in paperback and electronically formatted for the Kindle, Nook and Ipad. You can also purchase autographed copies of my book and get additional information about the author from my website at www.sweetliberia.com. Follow sweetliberia11834 on twitter.Ahnydahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759831640387657168noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790572809671619905.post-42314544153932735242011-10-22T22:37:00.000-07:002011-10-22T23:08:07.377-07:00Liberia- Freedom or Bondage, Which?Talking about politics is a slippery slope upon which that I rarely slide. However, every now and then for the sake of my own soul, I need to exhale If only for the sake of having my opinion heard. I will not be stifled; after all, even when I sneeze up my sleeve to prevent spreading germs, I have still sneezed.<br />Before I go global, first let me stamp my feet in my own playground. Politics is a dirty game that, from my naïve vantage point, no one ever seems to win, particularly the common person. We are handed the historical hype that America was founded on freedom but from my vantage point the roots of America are rebellion, classism and…I’m going to say it, RACISM.<br /><br />Here in America, our current president, Barak Obama is hounded by racism, which the media and polite liars attempt to shroud under a dozen other names, but which in the end, is still racism; racism so deeply rooted in the tradition that has become the American way, that it threatens to strangle this country. <br />What I see in Washington is a bunch of rebellious and employed people, on both sides of the aisle, who don’t seem to be able to come together to create policies that are equitable and fair and untarnished by corruption. We are a country where corporations and corrupt mega interests deemed ‘too big to fail’ call the shots, conspire and profit upon the misery and hard work of the ordinary working Joes and Jills. <br /><br />However, for all that is a mess in America, it looks damn good compared to Liberia. What I know about Liberian politics, I learned from living in Liberia for 11 years, from talking with Liberian friends, the news, foreign and domestic, books and the Internet. <br /><br />I am nervous about the election in Liberia. On October 11, President Sirleaf did not win handily and has to face a runoff on November 8. I’m not alone when I say that I want to see Liberia, my adopted homeland, whole. I believe President Sirleaf; given time and resources can accomplish that. I love Liberia and plan to spend time there in the next couple of years. I want find it peaceful, stable country. <br />When we escaped Liberia during the 1989 Civil War, I could not believe that anger could fester to the point that a country that had a burgeoning infrastructure, pockets of progress and an increasing literacy rate could catapult itself backwards 100 years. In my wildest imagination, I never believed that a country could go from 1990 to 1890 in 15 short years. President Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, the first female elected president of an African nation shares much in common with President Barak Obama. Both are victims of situations beyond their control, inheriting countries on the precipice of disaster. President Obama began his presidency amidst economic crisis months before taking the official oath of office. President Sir leaf has battled to rebuild Liberia from the devastation of 15 years of war. <br /><br />As Liberia prepares for a run- off election in November, I hope Liberia is ready to be free, personally I am rooting for President Sirleaf but I don't get to vote, that is a right reserved for Liberian citizens. However, it is hard for me to imagine that there could be a doubt that reelecting a president who has proved her love of and loyalty to Liberia, who has won the coveted Nobel Peace Prize, a president that understands the principles of government and of a sound fiscal management, with established international connections and respect would have trouble being reelected. <br /><br />From where I sit, it perplexes me that she didn’t win by a landslide. Then I remember that Liberia destroyed 95 % of its infrastructure during the war. Liberia is a country where, 3.6 million people, 80% of the country lives on less than $1 a day. In Liberia 90 % of women and 75% of men are illiterate. People are uneducated, desperate, and perhaps unable to think long term. Like many of us, they may be waiting for a savior of charisma and guile. I hope this is not the case in Liberia. No, I pray that is not the case in Liberia.<br /><br />As an avid fan of Star Trek, I recall that as the Starship Enterprise visited new worlds, one of the rules of engagement was never to give a less developed planet a weapon or a concept that outstripped their evolution. Primitive planets, using primitive weapons did not get phaser technology to defeat their enemies; there was a delicate evolutionary balance to be maintained. I hope Liberia is evolved to the point of being able to embrace democracy.<br /><br />The investment community is waiting for the outcome of this election. Robert Johnson, owner of RLJ Companies (founder and former owner of BET), has invested 30 million in a five star hotel, the RLJ Kendeja Resort in Liberia. The Chinese government is a major investor in Liberia. America, Liberia's god pa, is watching. Liberia is rich in natural resources that, if properly administered, might bring prosperity to Liberia, but companies are cautious, wondering what will happen if the country is once again subject to regime change or worse yet, violence.<br /><br />Who will suffer if President Ellen Johnson Sirleaf does not win the runoff election on November 8? It won’t be the Liberians living in the Diaspora, who are involved in Liberian politics from afar, but the common everyday Liberians, the ones that live on less than $1 a day. <br /><br />As much as I love Liberia, with its industrious people, gritty red dusty roads, gracefully bowing palm trees, glistening ocean,saucy rhythms and Club beer, I wonder if Liberian citizens are ready for real freedom. I wonder if Liberians are ready for a stable democratic government. I wonder if Liberians are ready to leave tribalism in the rear view mirror and harness the collective energy of all Liberians.<br /><br />For information on one way that you can help Liberia visit: http://www.liberianliteracyfoundation.org/liberianliteracyfoundationhome.htmlAhnydahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759831640387657168noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790572809671619905.post-16795889254874540642011-07-25T04:11:00.000-07:002011-07-25T04:31:45.288-07:00Liberian Independence Day 2011- Tale of Two Celebrations<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgANoABxCL4akfnvXNVtLQ0zDU1sPU1Gb6ZKB3I9sPInD7NJN5TJWYsoZeNTa5M1iZ3-Zgl0pEJj8OV0klMAoCuPf-33ZtG4fN_9BgWSKj7Mn-RaAJMOM1DtXcaDH0RQsuKtUfsjYNbThUC/s1600/100_1193.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgANoABxCL4akfnvXNVtLQ0zDU1sPU1Gb6ZKB3I9sPInD7NJN5TJWYsoZeNTa5M1iZ3-Zgl0pEJj8OV0klMAoCuPf-33ZtG4fN_9BgWSKj7Mn-RaAJMOM1DtXcaDH0RQsuKtUfsjYNbThUC/s320/100_1193.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633251112698780322" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEO7GcWlBoavqTc1rRVegzx2xA_j_YcTQN4aLI-JQoEobQbo1eWvYddZn_pMGTftwBb4Iuz8nrp1mu-ZMxfVCkwlCT4eEyQiF1MBQVdhEMrdc79o7iCRKgslQVKVFNeBQRroHn3koYdZJS/s1600/100_1182.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEO7GcWlBoavqTc1rRVegzx2xA_j_YcTQN4aLI-JQoEobQbo1eWvYddZn_pMGTftwBb4Iuz8nrp1mu-ZMxfVCkwlCT4eEyQiF1MBQVdhEMrdc79o7iCRKgslQVKVFNeBQRroHn3koYdZJS/s320/100_1182.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633249632915569890" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEvy0WzhFDw4cm6ifZhihpwhwfalLoJTjr90nuKRon1nZaigydoTqd-GM2Ju6mgaDb0vThOh0Mk770s7RsOR834tTU_Bn_ovuexFKXKSFujZW5TeprZ9E9xn_fpK37NksRZTAu-SCotRHE/s1600/front+cover+art.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 227px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEvy0WzhFDw4cm6ifZhihpwhwfalLoJTjr90nuKRon1nZaigydoTqd-GM2Ju6mgaDb0vThOh0Mk770s7RsOR834tTU_Bn_ovuexFKXKSFujZW5TeprZ9E9xn_fpK37NksRZTAu-SCotRHE/s320/front+cover+art.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633247584952031394" /></a><br /><strong><strong>Last year</strong>,</strong> shortly after releasing my memoir, “Sweet Liberia, Lessons from the Coal Pot,” the Organization of Liberians in Illinois (OCLI) invited me to speak at the 163rd Liberian Independence Day Celebration. My theme was, <strong>“How Can Liberia Rebuild After Years of Civil War?” </strong>Indeed, how does a country recover from a war that took the lives of hundreds of thousands of Liberians? How can Liberia heal the physical and psychological scars that could take 100 years to repair? I know that the righteous things are simple and with that in mind, I reflected, prayed and shared seven simple ideas. I revisit them today, in commemoration of the 164th anniversary of the Independence of Liberia. <br /><br />They are:<br />1) Forgive thine enemy. Release the bitterness and embrace the possibility of reconciliation and progress.<br /> 2) No More War! Keep Liberia stable and secure for at least the next 50-75 years. <br />3) Visit Liberia if you can and look into your peoples’ faces <br /> 4) Organize charities to support the people of Liberia <br />5) Educate everybody, no exceptions <br />6) Consider how to use the diversity of Liberia and all its tribes (ethnic groups) in Liberia’s favor<br /> 7) Be an advocate for Liberia within the United States <br />Those seven ideas applied simply and consistently could help Liberia move from a people affected by pain and bitterness to a people focused on progress. <br /><br /><strong>This year,</strong> as preparations were underway to celebrate the 164th Liberian Independence Day, I was a little dismayed to realize that for one reason or another, I would need to divide my attention between two Chicago Independence Day celebrations, a couple of miles apart, both on the south side. <br /><br />The celebration for the Organization of Liberians in Illinois (OLCI) celebrated, in addition to Liberian Independence, the inauguration of the Hon. Richard Tamba as its new president. An evening highlight was popular Liberian songbird Ms. Nimba Burr. Just a few miles away, the Liberian Community Association of Illinois (LCAI) held a separate celebration at Corpus Christi Church. <br /><br />I chose to attend both celebrations and to overlook whatever underlying reason caused the dual events. Instead, I focused on the positive energy and goodwill present at both celebrations. I immersed myself in the spirit and good humor of a people who, although divorced from their ravaged homeland, nevertheless treasure their national identity and the coming together with compatriots, friends and family to celebrate freedom! I focused on the fact that there were elders, youngsters, and all ages in between in common union! <br /><br />I noticed small details such as the fact that at one celebration, more of the attendees wore cultural attire and drove larger and more expensive automobiles; at another, I witnessed the Grand March, which brought back fond memories of Liberia. I have not witnessed the Grand March for more than twenty years and seeing elders in traditional dress and young men in flat-bibbed baseball caps marching with young women in shorts and stilettos was uplifting. I reveled in eating several fluffy pieces of rice bread and callah (a deep fried sweet bread reminiscent of donut holes), while my eldest daughter, who became women in Liberia, critiqued the flavors of authentically prepared Liberian foods that she has not eaten in a long, long time. <br /><br />In the end, what was most important to me about the 164th celebration of Liberian Independence is not that I attended two celebrations, but that Liberia is the oldest independent nation on the continent of Africa, and that my family has a connection to that history and that future.<br /><br />Saturday night, I laughed, a lot, and danced and sweated (a lot) to the upbeat rhythms of Liberian music. As I drove home in the early hours of Sunday, I realized that whatever problems lay ahead with respect to the governance of Liberian people living in the Diaspora, one thing I know for sure, is that as long as we can dance, eat, sweat and talk together, there is hope. All Hail Liberia, Hail!Ahnydahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759831640387657168noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790572809671619905.post-48250146796989912462011-04-25T16:30:00.000-07:002011-04-25T16:56:03.090-07:00"Branches of the tree: African Americans in Liberia, 1950-2010.”If the title sounds like a scholarly work, so be it. I may be the one to write it, or perhaps I'll just be the person to suggest the title and work on it but I think it needs to be written.<br /><br />I am not going to get too deep with this but I was interviewed a couple of weeks ago at Chicago State University for the Margaret Burroughs Oral History Series. I spoke to a gathering of faculty and students at the University, they threw me a wonderful reception, and afterwards I sat for a taped interview sharing intimate aspects of my life, primarily the portion of it that culminated in my decision to relocate with my family and work in Liberia, West Africa for eleven years. Our intention was to live in Liberia, but we were forced to flee during the Liberian Civil War. It was really rather challenging, to talk about ones motivations and choices on camera without the luxury of editing your mistakes away. However, I knew I would be vulnerable, when I wrote my memoir, Sweet Liberia, Lessons from the Coal Pot. <br /><br />I have to acknowledge that whenever anyone comments positively on my book I am humbled, somewhat surprised and I have even come to enjoy the sometimes-veiled criticism of my former life, before I was whoever people think I am today. Recently I have been wishing that I had the time and money to research the stories of African Americans that left the shores of America, after the initial migration to Liberia in 1817. What about people who left in the 1950’s, 60’s, 70, 80’s? We need to preserve those stories. For several years, I awakened at 4am to create the space in my life to write <strong>Sweet Liberia, Lessons from the Coal Pot</strong> and then forced myself through the final months of focused labor and thousands of dollars of my personal funds happily spent to give birth to the story of our sojourn. My book is my legacy for my family. Presently I am a proud daughter, sister, and grandmother working to bring my “A+ game” to my full time employer while sharing my historical musings in my spare time.<br /><br />But I realize that there is so much more to the history of African Americans in Liberia that is left on the table. There is the book by my dear friend Diane Jordan Grizzard, <strong>Free Soil</strong>, which brings the story as a stirring novel of historical fiction; there is Helene Cooper’s wonderful memoir, <strong>The House on Sugar Beach</strong>, which is written from the perspective of a woman of the lineage of the settlers that left American to settle Liberia. The group that was targeted during the April 12, 1980 coupe. Still there is much more on the table.<br /><br />I reflect immediately on my good friend Ron Watkins who died several years ago. An African proverb says that so long as someone says your name you live, and so Ron is immortal in the memory of those who love him. He traveled to Liberia, in the 80's to mine diamonds for some very prominent Chicagoans. I was friends with a group of expatriates composed of retired postal clerks and members of the Baha’i faith in Liberia. I recall acquaintances, Ben Kahil and Miriam a couple that left the West Side of Chicago who moved to the West Coast of Africa years before me and owned one of the largest schools in Liberia. The wife remarried a Liberian and still lives in Liberia. I have a friend, a Reverend, who traveled first to Tanzania and stayed until political problems in Tanzania sent him to Liberia, where he opened an elementary school, then a college and he is still living in Liberia. Liberia, because of it's open door policy, was open to immigration by hundreds of African Nationalists and African Hebrew Israelites that settled in Liberia. Many between the early 1970’s in the early 1980’s. <br /><br />One very poignant story that strikes me as high adventure, is of my friend’s children who were stranded in Liberia during the Civil War. Their father hitched a ride with Charles Taylor’s sister, I am told, and stole into Liberia via the Ivory Coast right into Charles Taylor’s camp to get his children. Now, that is a story waiting to be told!<br /><br />I was blessed to have the time, talent, fortitude and dollars to publish a portion of my life in Liberia, at the same time it saddens me to know that so much the live of African Americans bold enough to travel and live in Africa that is untold.<br /><br />My intention is to create at least one other book of the stories about "my tribe" in West Africa, <strong>Coal Pot Stories</strong>. I find people connect with my book because they see me as somebody like themselves, which is exactly right! My question is finding the means to facilitate the telling of the stories of people who are not and don't intend to become writers. It's an open question. I believe that the Universe rushes to fill a vacuum.Ahnydahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759831640387657168noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790572809671619905.post-27038294366391419352010-11-06T15:48:00.000-07:002010-11-21T07:59:00.931-08:00Thoughts about LiberiaSince publishing my memoir, "Sweet Liberia, Lessons From the Coal Pot," I have happily re-opened the mental file of Liberia. When I fled Liberia, August 8, 1990, 8 months into the Liberian Civil War, thought then to be a "rebel incursion," I thought at first that I would be retreating only briefly to America. I prayed that the violence would stop and I'd be able to gather my family and return, reopen my school, resume my life on Chubor Road, to re-establish my relationships in Liberia. <br /><br />Unfortunately that was not to be and Liberia was plunged into 15 years of Civil War. In the twenty years that followed my departure I received letters about acquaintences and friends in Liberia that I could not bear to open and simply put aside. All I allowed myself to think about was how to retrain my five children for life as Black children on the South Side of Chicago. I needed to teach my children about gangs, and drugs, and how not to trust adults you didn't know, and about African American history, the part that includes lynchings, Jim Crow and institutional racism. In short I had to teach them how to navigate America, a new home where they would have less freedom and less human dignity than they had experienced in Liberia. It was really, really hard to lose the promise that I had come to Liberia with, and to convince myself that it had never existed so that the loss of it was not so painful. That's what I did in the years between 1990 and 2007 when I began to seriously write the vignettes and stories that would become Sweet Liberia, Lessons From the Coal Pot.Ahnydahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759831640387657168noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790572809671619905.post-37802713255388305812010-08-01T06:56:00.000-07:002010-08-01T09:48:22.542-07:00Part 2 - I Meet the President of Liberia<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRblJPb90nZP-JnFXrs6PCeBX9AbT8vQiFVlkkQBU0BCdUWHtYhpRpF4nGxv02pmXPLysxtj4DQNApSrP-NUgPmmwDCpK6_U_pt7zrFKiWtklVKV2k15xaceVTcPuT5-42CeJtc0zm24hZ/s1600/front+cover+art.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 227px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRblJPb90nZP-JnFXrs6PCeBX9AbT8vQiFVlkkQBU0BCdUWHtYhpRpF4nGxv02pmXPLysxtj4DQNApSrP-NUgPmmwDCpK6_U_pt7zrFKiWtklVKV2k15xaceVTcPuT5-42CeJtc0zm24hZ/s320/front+cover+art.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500483369074475346" /></a><br /><br /><strong>In Part 1</strong> of my adventure to give a copy of my book, <strong>Sweet Liberia, Lessons from the Coal Pot</strong> to the President of Liberia, I’m expressing the intention. What happened next was pure serendipity. The lesson for me was that when I have, what appears to be an impossible idea, but something inside urges me to move forward, MOVE FORWARD! <br /><br />My first break came when I mentioned to a friend who had purchased my book that I wanted to give a copy to the President of Liberia. Instead of saying, something non-committal, she said, “She’s an AKA, and she’ll be at our AKA convention.<br />I replied, “You are an AKA, can you give it to her for me?” to which she replied, “Why not give it to her yourself?” She promised she would do what she could to help me. Meanwhile, another good friend, coincidentally an AKA, planned to drive to St Louis, and when she told me that, I knew that this was the Universe opening a way for me. Did I forget to mention that my younger sister Yvonne just happens to live in St. Louis!<br /><br />My friend and I drove down on July 10th in plenty of time for the private book signing my sister and her husband had planned for me and in time to attend the Public Forum of the AKA sisterhood, held at the America’s Convention Center, on Sunday, July 11th.<br /><br />As we sat in the nosebleed section of the Convention auditorium, I was feeling a bit discouraged. The program was exciting and as one who had never joined a sorority I was impressed by the number of women present, the level of organization, the level of their philanthropy, and the fact that many of the female movers and shakers of our country are sorority members, particularly AKA, the oldest Black sorority. Nevertheless, I hadn’t a clue how to make the leap from the nosebleed section of the Convention Center, to the President of Liberia. I had the fleeting thoughts of going back to my sister’s comfortable home and curling up on her couch with a bowl of ice cream for comfort.<br /><br />Then I saw them! Women wearing the colorful lappa suits I used to wear in Liberia and I knew that they must be either with the President or with a delegation planning to see her. By now, the first floor was crowded but some women had left and there was seating on the main floor. We raced to find the lappa suits!<br />When we did, I began speaking in my rusty Liberian English, “Hello Yah,” I said, attempting to make the connection that I too wanted to see the president. An ordained minister from downstate Illinois served as escort for the native women. He was a warm person, listening to my story of formerly having been a long-time resident of Liberia, who had written a book that I wanted to give to Madame Sirleaf. He seemed amused and a bit of hesitant. Finally, I won him over and he invited me to stay with them and follow them when the group was called! My sister Yvonne later told me that she read disbelief on people’s faces, but I was in the ‘zone’ and didn’t feel anything but the need to connect.<br /><br />Now seated on the first floor, in the VIP seating, I was on pins and needles, while watching President Sirleaf receive a check from her sorority sisters in the amount of ½ million dollars to a project that would educate the women of Liberia. When the purpose of the money was stated, the Liberian woman behind me burst into tears and, I can’t explain it, but I began crying too. I know what education can mean for Liberian women. My tears reminded me that feelings that had long been buried were being excavated.<br /><br />After the check presentation and President Sirleaf’s response, I found us hurriedly ushered to a small waiting area behind the stage and as the President’s security allowed the Liberian delegation entry, I felt it necessary to explain my special mission. They were polite, told me to make sure I did not interfere with any of the official protocol planned, and accepted samples of the bookmarks and palm cards advertising Sweet Liberia, Lessons from the Coal Pot.<br /><br /> Then I saw a woman who looked just like president Sirleaf, only smaller, and realized that this genial looking woman was probably her sister Jennie Bernard. I greeted her and expressed my intention of presenting her sister a copy of my book. She smiled as if to say, “try.”<br /><br />Then Madame President entered, escorted by her staff. There was a flurry of dignitaries taking turns to speak with her. We took a few group photos into which my sister and I squeezed ourselves and then the conversations continued. Finally, someone turned to me and said “your turn sister” and all reservation left me; this was my moment!<br /><br />“President Sirleaf, I appreciate all that you are doing for Liberia and will do. I met you years ago. I was introduced to you by Anna Cooper, when I worked as Directress at the Liberian National Red Cross.” She looked at me searching her memory and said, “that was way back.” She was right, it was 1982 or 83. <br /><br />Now that I had her attention, I rattled off something about my book being about my positive experiences in Liberia, and asked if she would honor me by accepting a copy. I had already autographed the book and enclosed a letter of introduction so she would know that I was not a lunatic…or maybe not. And then I pulled out my felt signing pen and my marked up copy her book, “This Child Will Be Great,” which my sister conveniently handed me, (thank God for sisters that have your back), and asked her if she would autograph my copy. As she did, cell phone cameras whizzed. The professional photographer stepped in front of my sister to get the shot, blocking out her camera, much to my sadness. <br /><br />The whole event was surreal and wonderful. However, the absolute capstone moment of my day was shortly after speaking with President Sirleaf, while my sister and I reveled in the victory. I received a call from my youngest son who was deep inside the memories of our life in Liberia and wanted to tell me that he loved me and to thank me for writing the book, and for his experiences in Liberia. I have not had a perfect life but I have led an interesting life. I look forward anxiously for my next adventure!Ahnydahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759831640387657168noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790572809671619905.post-36921596483023428222010-07-18T13:56:00.000-07:002010-08-01T09:53:22.107-07:00Meeting the President of Liberia - Part 1<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGUN1Bg2LvjqhasGmPWk8Rw11GcsxtoQk3cZ1SwReTfd6iDJJv2btFOPa3lZUwB32Z2GDkvC_-I_V9Zf4Btf2GoXDiE6edY2IkTSAEEMJIrfO5-Uid-RXGS2fORTmky8rl2hxdXrUgvVZe/s1600/ellen_johnson_sirleafCMYK-1.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGUN1Bg2LvjqhasGmPWk8Rw11GcsxtoQk3cZ1SwReTfd6iDJJv2btFOPa3lZUwB32Z2GDkvC_-I_V9Zf4Btf2GoXDiE6edY2IkTSAEEMJIrfO5-Uid-RXGS2fORTmky8rl2hxdXrUgvVZe/s320/ellen_johnson_sirleafCMYK-1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500485465743239330" /></a><br />As I wrote my book, "Sweet Liberia, Lessons from the Coal Pot," I had several goals in mind. First, I wanted to make sure that I documented the experience for my children. My eldest daughter Tonya became a woman and a mother during our 11 years in Liberia, West Africa. My eldest son Gyasi arrived in Liberia when he was just 6 months old and my other three children, Zevah, Muasa and Hope, were born in Liberia. <br /><br />Over the years, their memories of Liberia began to fade as did mine and I feared that in 20 or 30 years the story of our lives in Liberia would be lost. I wanted desperately to preserve a very important portion of our family's history. <br /><br />As I wrote, I recalled the beauty that was Liberia, and the spirit and hope of the Liberian people and realized that the Liberian war had changed that. I wondered what it must be like to be a Liberian in America and have people reference, not the art and culture and natural resources of your country, but the barbarism and brutality that had made it infamous. I wondered what it must be like to be the President of such a country. How difficult it must be to maintain your ground in the international community, head held high, friend raising and fundraising against the backdrop of the horrors of the Liberian Civil War and the trial of Charles Taylor, your country's former president, for crimes against humanity. <br /><br />I wondered what it must be like to be the first female elected African president. I wondered what it must be like to be President Ellen Johnson Sirleaf. <br /><br />So. My second thought was that perhaps my book would provide an opportunity to share something positive, about the sweetness of Liberia, the wonderful humanity and kindness, and freedom from fear I had experienced for many years, before the war erupted and sucked the civility out of Liberia. Perhaps, "Sweet Liberia, Lessons from the Coal Pot," could, in some small way, show Americans and particularly African Americans that Liberia had been, and again could be, a place that people consider when they want to vacation, or retire. Liberia could again be a place where international agencies and faith-based organizations feel comfortable to engage in development and missionary work: a country where African Americans could begin to invest our money in businesses and in the future redevelopment of Liberia! <br /><br />Then I remembered my introduction to President Sirleaf many years earlier, in Liberia, when she was just Ellen Johnson Sirleaf of the Ministry of Finance and I was just the Directress of the Red Cross Day Care Center. Something made me think, wouldn't it be nice if, as she moves about the world, trying to friend raise and fundraise on behalf of her beloved Liberia, that she knew that there were many people thinking good things about Liberia. It was then that I said in my heart, "I intend to give her a copy of my book." end of part 1Ahnydahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759831640387657168noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790572809671619905.post-56145491936846452092010-05-23T06:58:00.001-07:002010-05-23T07:05:37.330-07:00Recipe for Liberian Food-Cassava LeafLiberian’s love Cassava Leaf. While I was in Liberia one of my favorite foods was cassava leaf. Imagine my joy when I found a LaFruteria, a Mexican grocery on 89th and Commercial, in Chicago that sells, in addition to Mexican foods, Caribbean and African foods! I found cassava leaf, palm butter, palm oil and parboiled rice!<br /><br />I am a vegetarian so when I prepare cassava leaf I don't use meat; however, in Liberia cassava leaf was prepared most often with smoked fish or lightly fried chicken. For my protein, I typically use either ground pea butter (peanut butter without sugar) or add pre cooked red beans. Note of Caution: Palm oil is heavy, saturated oil. With our sedentary lifestyles, enjoy the dish, but not too often unless you are really exercising.<br /><strong>Ingredients</strong><br />2 -8 ounce packages of Ground Cassava Leaves <br />1-1 ½ cups of Red Palm Oil<br />2 green chopped Habanera pepper (if you get the red pepper use only 1)<br />Salt –to taste<br />Garlic-2-3 cloves chopped finely<br />Onion- ½ diced<br />Vegetarian bouillon cubes (if you are not a vegetarian, then chicken or beef bouillon cubes-favorite brand is Maggi - 1<br />Ground pea butter -4 tablespoons. [Stir in several tablespoons of hot water]<br />2 cups of Parboiled rice or any long grained rice-prepared according to package directions<br /><strong>Process</strong><br />Cover the frozen cassava leaves with 4 cups of water and cook over a medium fire (watch carefully) until all the water is boiled out of the cassava. Be careful not to scorch the cassava.<br />Add the palm oil and ground pea butter, onions, garlic, chopped peppers and cook until the mixture has the consistency of gravy. If needed add more oil and adjust your seasonings to taste.<br /><br /><strong>Options for chicken and beef</strong>-Omit the ground pea butter -Lightly brown your meat and put it to the side. Then flake it into bite size pieces and add AFTER the palm oil and other seasonings is included. Cook for a few more minutes in order to let the seasonings filter through the meat.<br /><strong>Serve!</strong><br />Serve over nice firm rice <br />Make the meal healthier by serving with a large vegetable salad and plenty of cool water!Ahnydahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759831640387657168noreply@blogger.com61tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790572809671619905.post-89043820411075698632010-04-03T06:02:00.000-07:002010-04-03T12:52:18.395-07:00Man sharing for Fools or Realists?One man having multiple women is called many names. Cheating, Polygamy, Man sharing, Divine Marriage, Plural Marriage and some bad names I refuse to print. I want to explore whether, in 2010, there might be a way for men and women to form positive partnerships that are mutually beneficial to a male and multiple female partners. There is already sufficient drama in our relationships and looking around, I see large numbers of children being raised in homes with little or no consistent positive male interaction. Is it reasonable to consider men having multiple partners in a relationship where each knows their status in each other's lives as a possible solution to the chaos we are currently witnessing.<br /><br />I first became aware of the fact that some men have more than one wife in the 1970's when I was in my early 20's. Do not start guessing my age, but I do consider myself a fine-tuned vintage model. I've covered some mileage but I follow my Maker's manual and I'm in nearly mint condition! I digress, back then I considered myself an African Nationalist, you can look that up, but in brief, I believed strongly that for African Americans to achieve better status in the United States we should be more closely aligned with Mother Africa. <br /><br />Then, as now, for Black women, the viable options for a committed life partner of the opposite sex were limited. <strong>Lets deal with that. </strong> During a quick Google search, I found that the 2002 statistic for prison inmates in the U.S was well over 2 million. Further, <strong>10.4% of the entire African-American male population in the United States aged 25 to 29 was incarcerated, by far the largest racial or ethnic group—by comparison, 2.4% of Hispanic men and 1.2% of white men in that same age group were incarcerated. </strong> Once a man has been in jail (has papers on him) do you know how unlikely it is for him to secure a "good job"?<br /><br />In the 70's, 40 years ago, Haki R. Madhabuti, distinguished educator, author, publisher and founder of Third World Press, convened a forum to discuss and air views in the Nationalist community on 'Man sharing.' Everything goes in circles and so now 40 years later; this unresolved topic rises again to the top of the heap. I saw a recent forum on Black Love convened by a concerned sister and the topic was 'Man sharing' yet again. I have learned that when life tosses you a lesson and you cannot resolve it, it comes back to you. It is almost as if the Universe is saying, "Are yawl ready to deal with this now?"<br /><br />I notice that, perhaps because so many men are being locked away together, there are increasing numbers of men who are same gender loving. In addition, large numbers of men are being killed in street violence or in the military, not to mention men who are just mentally unstable, pedophiles, rapists, or just hopelessly emotionally broken. Seriously, what are women to do?<br /><br />Years ago, I joined one of the many Black Hebrew Israelite groups in the United States and migrated with them to West Africa. The group practiced Divine Marriage. Divine Marriage allowed for, but did not specifically require, a man to have more than one wife. Our guidelines required that the man be responsible in all the ways that he was responsible to his first wife, to additional wives and all the children. The intention was to infuse order and balance into the relationship. <br /><br />An observation made recently by a long-time resident of Liberia was that having more than one wife is an African solution to a problem of having more women than eligible men. He understood from living in the mountains of Voinjama (Liberia) among the Mandingo that if you have more women then men in a tribe you want the women of your culture to increase your tribal numbers and to retain your culture rather than dilute it by marrying outside your tribe. Survival of the group is the issue. A man of stature gained respect by taking up the slack and marrying more than one woman. I've lived in situations where men have multiple wives and I've seen relationships run the spectrum from good to terrible, much like relationships between couples practicing monogamy.<br /><br />As I witness some of the more recent scenarios play out in my community between men and their multiple women, the perception and the practice of relating to one another seems mainly negative. There is a lot of "baby mama drama" and women fighting other women over the attentions of a male, and men shirking their responsibility for their offspring. How can that damage be repaired for the good of the community?<br /><br />Do we challenge the notion that it's wrong for a woman to pursue another woman's man, even when the chances for her having her own man are not in her favor? Should women feel bad for forming relationships with men already in other relationships? Is there a way to manage these relationships positively and productively? These are questions. <br /><br />Women who feel they are safely in a relationship look outside at their sisters and say,<strong> "Get your own man and leave mine alone." </strong>However, when I speak to men, even those that claim to be in a good relationship, few can honestly say they have never had an extramarital relationship. Among Black women, our reality is, there is not a 1 to 1 ration of hetero Black men to hetero Black women. So how does a Yin balance her Yang?<br /><br />I speak from the experience of a Black woman, but could my scenario fit women of other cultures. I’m not sure, but I don't think so. <br />At any rate, I was turning this topic around in my head. Has anybody else? I open the conversation.Ahnydahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759831640387657168noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790572809671619905.post-16686868512836361372009-09-06T10:01:00.000-07:002009-09-06T10:05:20.707-07:00As Green As It GetsGreen is a fad in America. People in other countries don’t think of not wasting and not being selfish as being green. Waste and selfishness is the American way. We seem to need a fad, another movement, to help us do that which common practice elsewhere. Why is that? In America, we tend to waste more than some people have to begin with. Out of necessity, I lived a frugal, energy efficient life in Liberia yet once I returned to the United States, over time, I find myself guilty of being as wasteful as some people who have never had the opportunity to see how efficient it is to recycle. Therefore, my question to myself is, why does where we live effect what we do? My guess is that the answers are necessity and culture. <br /><br />A couple of weeks ago I culled through my clothes closet and pulled out clothes that I hadn’t worn in a year and donated them to my local resale store. As I write this passage there is a large full black plastic garbage can behind my home. I live alone but the amount of trash I discard is tremendous, especially after junk mail deliveries, parties and gift giving holidays. <br /><br />Here in America, we spend billions of dollars a year on garbage disposal. We have a vast sanitation industry that picks up our waste and hauls it away. In some instances, trash is taken to recycling centers, in other cases to landfill or to be incinerated. <br /><br />In Liberia, the situation is much different. In Liberia, as in many developing countries, there is often really no centralized system available or needed for the country people. In fact, while I was in Liberia I only remember one garbage disposal company. An African American woman, Betty Carter, who had formerly been a popular jazz singer here in the US, owned it. Her customers were in the more affluent sector of Liberia. Her company had contracts to pull garbage from the American embassy. However, the common folk, the clerical workers, the marketers, persons struggling to make a living did not have garbage pickup. In some instances people took their trash to garbage dumps that sprang up in every area, some people dug pits and buried garbage in their yards. <br /><br />All sturdy containers are recycled and many of those containers store locally produced palm oil or vegetable oil for sale in the Market. Palm oil and vegetable oil are resold in plastic or glass bottles that are gathered off garbage dumps, washed with soap and water and placed in the sun to dry. <br />The containers, once refilled with oil are closed with a banana leaf stopper or folded paper. <br /><br />Food is sold in paper cones or wrapped in newspapers or any paper discarded from offices and homes. Again, someone’s job is to gather the paper and provide it to the market women. Plastic sandwich bags hold ground pea butter, which is a staple in the Liberian diet, and a few other commodities that would not transport well in paper. <br /><br />Plastic bags, the kind we get at supermarkets, are the lighter fluid for coal pot fires. Reusable market bags are fashioned from sacks that formerly held 100 lbs of rice. Handles are sewn on the cloth-like are sold and each customer brings their own market bag into the market with them. <br /> <br />Nothing is just routinely tossed out, food is no exception. I learned about real kindness and generosity by observing and finally participating in the way that the Liberian people share food. A bowl of food is served and everyone that wants to eat comes to the bowl with a spoon. Folks sit together and talk while they eat until the food is gone; the emphasis is on eating with someone else and sharing the camaraderie. Whenever food is not needed, it is offered to someone else and more often than not, if no one wants the food it is saved and eaten later as ‘cold bowl.’<br /><br />If you are eating, ‘mean’ not to offer food to others and in Liberia, no one wants to be called ‘mean.’ The custom is that if someone visits your home and you don’t have enough to offer an individual serving you give that visitor a spoon or fork and they eat from your plate. If your guest is hungry, they eat and if they aren’t they politely eat a spoon or forkful and place the utensil down, signifying that the other diner is free to continue eating the rest of the meal. At a time when we place a lot of emphasis on germs, no one gives it a thought. The concern is for the visitor. That is the essence of a mentality that in so-called “civilized” or modern societies sometimes gets completely lost. <br /><br />Restaurants save the food that people leave on their plates for disabled or insane people that come to the back door for charity. In addition, if you attend some of the more lavish parties that were given in Liberia, whether the host is aware or not, the staff either packs up the leftovers from the guests plates or hands it out the backdoor to others. Food is just not thrown away.<br /><br />At the Red Cross Daycare Center, daily we prepared lunch for between 50 and 80 children. Our fees stayed low because we served local foods. Several times a week we bought fresh fish and greens from the Rally Time market only purchasing chicken or beef a couple of times a month. The protein was combined with vegetables, typically cassava leaves, palava greens, potato greens, okra, eggplant, bitter ball or pumpkin squash and served over parboiled rice. <br /><br />Noon was lunchtime. Children sat with their caregivers and practiced their table manners while eating. After the children were put down for their naps, a couple of cups of rice and a little of, the stew was stirred into a bowl for the staff and they sat together and ate communally. The children’s plates were scraped before washing in hot water but the table scraps weren’t thrown in the garbage, they were placed in plastic bags or covered bowls. Staff requested the table scraps to take home to their pets. Packs of dogs roamed the market grounds and dumping sites ripping through garbage for food but the average Liberian couldn’t afford to feed a dog. Certainly not my staff that were paid $100 a month. I came to understand that asking for food for pets was a way to save face, which I respected. <br /><br />We also used table scraps to feed starving men released from Central Prison on Tuesday. The prison was several blocks away from Red Cross Headquarters. There was no prison kitchen, no mess hall. If you had a relative in jail and you wanted them to survive the experience, it was your responsibility to feed them and other prisoners nearby and to bring either food or money for the guards. That is, if you expected them to get the food. One of the other Red Cross directors that had himself been imprisoned during the April 12th coup shared with me that the rice for prisoners was cooked outside in a 55 gallon metal drum over an open fire and that a couple of gallons of palm oil was added to help increase the calories. This rice was distributed to the prisoners, no matter how many prisoners there were. When the food was gone, it was gone. Weaker prisoners routinely became ill and died in custody. <br /><br />Tuesday was the day that prisoners that were the frailest were released from prison. In the early afternoon, they would stagger over to the Red Cross begging for food. The only food prepared on the premises was in the daycare center kitchen so on that day the prisoners were given the scraps from the children’s lunch. The food was dumped onto serving trays from which the men ate with their hands. Often because they were starving, they became ill and vomited from the richness of the food. <br /><br />One tragic experience comes to mind. A man, who appeared to be Fula, stumbled to the backyard of the Red Cross during the children’s naptime. My janitor, Saah, had finished mopping the lunch area and was about to sit and eat his bowl of food alone on the back steps. When he saw the released prisoner, he felt sorry for him, knew all the food was gone and gave up his plate. He left the man hungrily devouring the food but later when Saah came back to retrieve his plate he found that the man had died. We were all shaken up but Saah said he was glad that the man had received some human kindness before he died. <br /><br />I am grateful for the experience of living in the midst of people with such generosity of spirit. I believe that when people who have a little share what they have, it has more significance than when people, who have a lot, share a little. Generosity in the face of what appears to be lack indicates a fearless trust in the Universe to provide.Ahnydahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759831640387657168noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790572809671619905.post-30565411492865693042009-08-21T10:18:00.000-07:002009-08-30T16:55:20.742-07:00Grunna Children*‘Grunna’ is a Liberian English term that means ‘grown up.’<br /><br /><em>Children are called 'grunna' when they are alone due to poverty or being orphaned. 'Grunna' children are kids who are raising themselves. While I was in Liberia I thought children raising themselves was a phenomenon in developing countries however, as I look around my city and see what drugs and the violence that grips our urban communities from gangs, I realize that I am surrounded by grunna children even in the US.</em><br /><br />My washboy's name was David. He was about 18 with skin the color of unsweetened dark chocolate. He had sparkling white teeth and skin stretched tautly across a tight muscular frame. He was majestic. Although African Americans have become quite proud of the kink of our hair, Liberian men typically keep their heads either shaved or cropped.<br /><br />David was introduced to me by Andrew, my janitor at the Liberian Red Cross Day Care Center. I was struggling to keep up with my washing and Andrew brought David to see me. He had no place to sleep and was "stopping" with Andrew, and needed to find work so he could afford his own room. <br /><br />Three of my youngest children were nightly bed wetters. Binah, my eldest daughter, and I had been washing their sheets, bedclothes and their school uniforms daily. But now Binah had a baby girl of her own and so now I did most of the washing for the bed wetters. <br /><br />In addition to working as a director at the Red Cross, I grew and packaged mung, lentil and sometimes azuki bean sprouts for sale in the Lebanese grocery stores and local Chinese restaurants. I needed help. David agreed to wash, hang the clothes in the sun and press them for me as they dried for $25.00 a month and of course we would provide a bowl of rice and soup for him on his washday. You typically couldn't’t get your clothes washed <em>and</em> ironed at that price so I figured he was angling to eventually get a permanent job with the Red Cross or wanted my help in getting him ‘ducofley’ (old clothes) from the Red Cross warehouse to sell. There was always a hidden agenda but at the time I thought I had stuck a good deal! I wish I had remembered the adage “whenever something appears too good to be true it is.”<br /><br />Early Saturday mornings,just after sunrise, I‘d hear David out back drawing water from the outdoor spigot and pouring it into the three zinc tubs I'd left outside for him along with the wooden washboard, scrub brush and cakes of wash soap. The sound of running water punishing the zinc tubs was my cue to bring my laundry outside. <br /><br />David would greet me at the back door wearing only a broad grin, <em>really </em>short-shorts and flip flops. He washed silently, hung the clothes on the line to dry before ironing and by the time he finished his work, we had finished prepared the meal of the day. By 2:00 he had eaten his bowl of food, played soccer with the boys and left as quietly as he had come.<br /><br />This contract went on for three Saturdays and although my pay check from the Red Cross was going to be delayed at the end of the month I fully intended to pay David from profits I made from my bean sprout sales. As we neared the end of the first month of our contract the agency decided to show the their appreciation by allowing me to choose clothing for all my children from the gently used clothing bales that had just arrived from several of the European Red Cross Societies. Our national society was allowed to sell a portion of each shipment to help fund the organization’s activities. The clothing was in excellent condition, almost new and mainly 100% cotton. I virtually got each of my children and my granddaughter a completely new wardrobe! They attended private schools that required uniforms so between this new clothing and their school uniforms they were now well-dressed. <br /><br />It took an entire afternoon in the storage area of the Liberian Red Cross to agonize over the clothing needs of my children, when I finally brought the clothes home I had so many 'new' outfits stuffed into the trunk of the taxi that I had to pay extra for the driver to deliver me to our door! My children, especially the older ones, were elated to have name brand clothes, many like the ones they had seen in magazines.<br /><br />I planned to spend more time socializing with other African Americans living in Liberia and the 'new' clothes provided them with the wardrobe they needed to fit in with the children of other Americans living in Liberia. Many of those parents were employed by the Embassy or held jobs that paid in foreign currency, not the local wages I earned at the Red Cross. <br /><br />When Saturday rolled around I brought out the newly acquired clothing and asked David to wash them for extra money. He was adamant that I must not pay him anything extra and he stayed on late into the evening to wash and iron the new clothes.<br /><br />On Monday, when my eldest daughter began to look for specific items that I had gotten for my her daughter, we couldn't find any of the pastel tee shirts from Carter and the Oshkosh coveralls. She looked and looked and could not find them. Gradually the other children began looking through the stacks of carefully ironed items and realized that we could barely account for half of what had been washed.<br />We came to the realization that the clothes had been stolen, but how?<br /><br />The next morning at work I shared the mystery of the missing clothes to one of my employees and she seemed to be stifling laughter. <br /><br /><strong>“Ole ma, the wash boy but his finger in your eye.” </strong><br /><br />"How?, He comes and goes naked, how could he have stolen the clothes."<br />Then she said,<br /><strong>“Don’t you think that man knows how to throw clothes in the bushes and come back for them at night?"</strong> And then she just walked away leaving me feeling very stupid. <br /><br />It seemed that David, as he washed, tossed some of our clothes into the bushes with the dirty wash water. The area was marshy so no one had reason to go there. Then probably at night, while we were slept, he came back for the wet clothes, washed them, pressed them and sold them. No wonder he didn’t want me to give him any extra money! <br /><br />I was so furious my head spun. I ordered Andrew to fetch David. He had thought I was so naive, probably thought we had so much, that we'd either not miss the clothes or never figure out what happened. He was wrong. My children and I were hanging on by a thread and those clothes had been important to us. Of course Andrew professed embarrassment at David’s theft. However, in Liberia, theft of items from a household is extremely common and mainly people overlook it. But these clothes had been treasured by my children.<br /><br />David stood his ground, <strong>"ole Ma, I never <strong>stole nothin from you 'O'!</strong></strong>, swearing he had not stolen the clothes. I refused to pay him the $25 I owed him unless he brought the clothes back. Of course he had sold the clothes so he began to 'beg' me, which means to throw himself on my mercy. I didn’t relent and so that was the end of that. He lost his $25 but he probably sold the clothes for much more. I was a fool but I wasn’t a damn fool. A subtle but important difference.Ahnydahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759831640387657168noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790572809671619905.post-37047886763974124242009-07-11T08:56:00.000-07:002009-08-21T11:07:09.394-07:00Oh My God, The Roaches Have Wings!“The roaches were so large that I could hear their footsteps on the floor”<br /><br />I’m a city kid and no stranger to your average roach. I’ve spent much of my life in apartments and the downside of sharing your environment with neighbors is that you get to battle the common infestations; mice and roaches. Of course between visits of the exterminator there is that can of Raid that each family carefully conceals in their grocery cart. <br /><br />And then there’s the water bug, the roaches’ more fearsome counterpart. I’ve heard that in the southern states the roaches grow pretty big but Liberia has the largest cockroaches I’ve ever seen. I soon became accustomed to seeing cockroaches 2 1/2 inches long cutting the corners of a room. Sometimes, at night, as I lay in the quiet darkness of my room I could hear them creeping across the floor. <br /><br />I remember being horrified when a friend spied a cockroach perched on the arm of her dining room chair. She maintained eye contact with me while with one hand grabbing and swinging a fly swatter, BAM! Only the target took flight and the flurry of those short brown wings that made a buzzing sound was as frightening to me as being sealed in a room with a giant condor. <br /><br />Early on in our Liberian experience we lived down Lakpazee Road in a quiet residential area where we constantly battled the homegrown roaches that infested the home we shared with two other families. One of the other women and I had both delivered babies within a month of each other and together we struggled with hand washing diapers, breastfeeding and acclimating to life in Liberia. It was difficult enough to keep the kids and the house clean without modern conveniences. The road that ran past our house was unpaved and we constantly swept sand from the floors. But the most disturbing thing was that there were roaches everywhere! If you opened a door or a drawer or moved something that had been stationary for awhile, you set the backfield in motion.<br /><br />One night, I fell asleep nursing my newborn and I awakened to find two roaches on my exposed breast; one actually perched on my nipple! I became hysterical, my husband, jerked from his sleep by my screams quickly killed both roaches and, although he was almost as disgusted as me (after all he hadn’t been awakened by a cockroach licking milk from his breast), he tried to get me to go back to sleep. There was no freakin way I was going back to sleep! For the rest of that night I sat erect in the living room with all the lights on. <br /><br />I realized that I’d have to build up my confidence to kill big roaches! When you squash them a thick milky substance oozes out and leaves behind a distinctive odor. I eventually mustered enough courage to grab somebody else’s shoe, to kill the roaches, and finally was able to stomach using thick paper to pick up dead roaches and toss them down the toilet or into the bushes. I observed that they are highly intelligent creatures and, like ants, roaches look after one another. I have witnessed roaches come to retrieve the body of a fallen roach and to hesitate and circle it, as if in grief and finally pull the body away! <br /><br />The straw that led to our all out assault on the roaches was when our friends, housemates, who had brought hundreds of books with them to Liberia, were rearranging their books and stumbled upon a cockroach nest. That day they killed two dustpans full of roaches in their room and more just seemed to keep coming. That was when we decided that we would wage war! Once we determined that roaches were intelligent we became very aggressive about stepping on them. That sounds cruel but it was a battle of wills and that they needed to know that we weren’t taking no stuff! The roaches in our house were so big and meaty I fancied that one day one of them was going to actually scream while being stepped on. <br /><br />We searched all the closets and cupboards and killed everything moving, but we s couldn’t understand why we still had so many roaches. The men went outside and looked all around the house and low-and-behold, on the side of our house, there was a bush that had an awful smell. They pulled back the brush and our cracked septic tank teeming with roaches living off the waste in the tank. Everyone felt dirty after an afternoon of killing roaches so we took early showers and sat around nibbling popcorn and discussing how to repair the septic tank. <br /><br />Meanwhile I recall that one of the men, rode into town the next day and hired an exterminator from the Ministry of Public Works. We had imagined this was going to be an experience quite similar to hiring an exterminator from any one of the pest extermination companies we were familiar with in the states. You know, “Got a Roach, Call Coach, Orkin, or Roach Busters, TNT. We were so wrong! <br /><br />The exterminator came on a Thursday heightening our anticipation of a weekend without roaches. We were instruction to leave the house for the day and return around 3:00. Upon our return, we were overjoyed to find roaches dead all over the house. We opened our front and back doors and threw open the windows to expel the smell of the fumigation and joined together in the disposal of the dead roaches we found in every crack and cubby hole. However, at dusk we were puzzled by the unnatural silence. Gone was the sound of the crickets and the birds that we normally heard outside our windows in the evening. Shortly thereafter we noticed that not only were the roaches dead but there no longer seemed to be any animal life around our house. Later that night, while mopping the kitchen floor, my friend opened the cabinet under the sink to grab the mop bucket and found a small dead snake. We went to bed that night with mixed feelings. <br /><br />Early the next morning, when the other women in the house and I were in the backyard washing clothes we found several dead birds lying in the grass. The effects of the exterminator continued to become apparent. We discovered that even the plastic cases that housed our cassette tapes were pitted. And we were saddened when our Lebanese neighbor interrupted our pancake breakfast to tell us that his pet monkey, that we had often played with across the back fence was dead. Obviously no one mentioned the exterminator.<br /> <br />Frightened at the power of the chemical that was used and wondering if we would be affected, my husband hurried to the main road and took a taxi into town to find the exterminator, what he learned confirmed our worst suspicions. Our home had been sprayed with several chemicals, one of which was Dichlorodiphenyltrichloroethane, better known as DDT, a pesticide which although banned in the US in 1972, was perfectly legal in Liberia! He returned home with several pamphlets containing information about DDT and after reviewing it we made a joint decision. We reluctantly threw away all the food we had stored in cardboard boxes and plastic bags that had been exposed to the spraying. <br /><br />It was an utter catastrophe for us! When we immigrated to Liberia we knew we’d be saying goodbye to the foods we were accustomed to. But we were vegetarians and wanted to bring our favorite food staples to tide us over until we found the local equivalent. Now, that our food had been contaminated by the DDT we tossed out pounds of Soy milk powder, organic cashews, pecans, almonds and sunflower seeds in addition to whole wheat flour, organic soaps; everything had to be thrown away! In fact we dug a huge whole in the backyard and buried it to keep locals from going on the dump and thinking it was good food and carrying it away. All we were able to keep were a few pounds of nuts and soy powder we had stored in Ball glass jars. <br /><br />This was an expensive wake up call for us. Although DDT is a deadly chemical and stays in the soil for years after it is dispensed, to date, it is still considered the most effective chemical in the fight against malaria which is a deadly scourge in parts of Africa. <br /><br />The loss of our imported food actually helped us become more creative in learning to prepare Liberian foods which we had initially snubbed our noses at. I guess you could say we had our security blanket ripped away.Ahnydahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759831640387657168noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790572809671619905.post-92014444304493945802009-07-11T07:31:00.000-07:002009-07-11T07:46:44.785-07:00A Taste of Life In LiberiaMy book, which, like a pregnant woman I am still in labor with, will definitely be born this year. But while I am pouring through my experiences and better shaping my book,I wanted to share some of the stories that I just can't contain in <strong>Sweet Liberia, Lessons from the Coalpot</strong>. During July, August and September I'll be publishing some of those experiences in this blog. <br /><br />Those experiences enriched my family's experiences in Liberia. I hope you enjoy reading them and also that, if you've been to Africa or to any place where you've had some interesting experiences, you'll be inspired to send me a post.<br /><strong><br />Not a good writer?</strong> No worries, I just want to hear from you!<br /><strong>Never been out of America? </strong> Trust me, you don't have to leave America to have interesting experiences. In fact I live on the far south side of Chicago and yesterday morning I heard a loud BOOM, ran to the front door, looked a few houses down the street and there was a military grade tank on my street with a team of men in combat gear carrying assault rifles. But that's another story. <strong>I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours!</strong>Ahnydahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759831640387657168noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790572809671619905.post-30329179056888322352009-07-05T07:53:00.000-07:002009-07-05T07:55:51.951-07:00Common Expressions Used In LiberiaBelow are just a few of the expressions that form the pidgin language called Liberian English. If you have lived in Liberia, please add to this list.<br /><br />1. Leave them, they will come to theysef- a form of what comes around goes around<br />2. The fish gets rotten at the head- implies that when there is a problem with a system or organization, look first to its leader<br />3. Never Mind yah- don’t worry<br />4. Borning- the process of giving birth<br />5. Man business or woman business- about love and dating<br />6. Baby mah-baby’s mother<br />7. Baby pa-baby’s father<br />8. Ole Ma- older woman<br />9. Ole Pa-older father<br />10. Small shop- small roadside shop, typically a zinc or zinc covered shack, where small items like bread, soda, razor blades, and cakes of wash soap are sold.<br />11. Dash- a kickback used more in Ghana<br />12. Cold water- same as a dash<br />13. Yah- yes<br />14. ‘O’- something that is said to emphasize a statement- she’s mad ‘O’ (she’s really mad!)<br />15. Abuse – (pronounce abuuz) As in how can you abuse me like that? - Means to cuss the person directly. The act of calling a person a Bitch or a Fucker is abusing the actual person, using the word without connecting it to the person is not abuse.<br />16. Americo-Liberian- a person descended from American slaves that relocated to Liberia<br />17. To beg – To beg is to humble yourself acknowledging that you are wrong and to show remorse. Asking for forgiveness is a common thing and people are not too proud to admit wrong doing. This can be a ploy to manipulate a person that is perceived in a class (Liberia, like America is very class orientated) above you. Often the begging is insincere. It is also important to note that begging a person’s forgiveness does not mean that the same offense will not be committed again; it just means you acknowledge that it was wrong, and you regret being caught. There are many things that people do for survival, not malice and begging acts to clear the conscience.<br />18. Congo people- slaves that were taken from the interior of African (the former Belgium Congo region) that became free in Liberia and never made the trip to the United States but are an amalgam of many tribes.<br />19. Coal pot – a coal pot is a utensil similar if function as a barbecue pit. See the Coal pot as a metaphor. <br />20. Na fo- a rhythmic children’s clapping game, similar to hambone that is popular in Liberia.<br />21. Civilized- having more modern, as opposed to traditional tribal, behaviors, mannerisms or lifestyle.<br />22. Bush school- (called also Sande Bush or Gola Bush) the traditional and secret system through which male and female initiates learn the ways of their tribe. It is said that young people learn marriage customs, tribal roles and responsibilities and how to accurately tell time without a clock, herbal cures and how to be a responsible member of the tribe. It is during this initiation that tribes that carry out the rite of circumcision.<br />23. As God so fixed it- means according to the will of God<br />24. Grunna boy or grunna girl- means a street child; literally a grownup girl or grown up boy. <br />25. What news? – What’s up and the response commonly given is, No bad news.Ahnydahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759831640387657168noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790572809671619905.post-52656391179179485552009-05-18T02:50:00.000-07:002009-05-18T03:16:07.956-07:00The Children of God in WarWhen I left Liberia in August of 1990 some of my friend's children were upcountry in Bong County, unable to get back to Monrovia, unable to get out of Liberia. <br /><br />I know that they faced severe hardships and it would encourage them to tell those stories to people who will listen quietly and not judge, to people who will offer them support. My children were fortunate that I was with them and able to, through the help of others, get them out of Liberia when I was guided by Spirit. It is really hard to stay and survive in a war when you don't have a side. All I wanted was for Liberians to make peace with one another so that it could go back to being Sweet Liberia. I wonder if anyone else wants to comment on Liberia during the war or on any other aspect of Liberia. From time to time I'm going to throw up a topic and hopefully get a response. If you know someone that was in Liberia and an Hebrew between the years of 1980 and 1991 please send them this blog address and ask them to contribute.Ahnydahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759831640387657168noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790572809671619905.post-34969075399164457022008-12-31T13:19:00.000-08:002009-03-02T16:00:29.215-08:00A Revelation<blockquote><em><em>"I had a thought that I could change a thing that was not real. I shared with it my space and my time, but oh how sad it made me feel...."
<br />(A Revelation by Doug and Jean Carne)</em>"</em></blockquote>For years I have lamented having been spat out of Liberia, West Africa, a country that I had planned to make my home. I just couldn’t understand why we had been unable to live in <strong>Sweet Liberia,</strong> in peace and replant our generational seeds on African soil. It was a pain that I bore silently for eighteen years, the way one bears the burden of crushed dreams. I suffered in silence while I raised my five children into adulthood and rationalized that our flight from wartime Liberia had been best for them. They needed to be safe, to be educated, to be with our family here in America, no matter if I didn't feel they were totally free and equal citizens of the United States. Silently I felt cheated, felt that I had been denied my dream of leaving America with its bitter sting of racism and the limits it placed on the souls of myself and my ancestors.
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<br />In 1979, when I immigrated from the United States of America, I left behind a country where I could never hope to have my children ascend to the unrestricted heights that every parent wants to know are possible for their offspring. I left America with the hope that in Africa my children could be accepted at full value and be finally, really free. I prayed that their dreams could come true in Sweet Liberia. And yet the Liberian Civil War had changed all that, tainted my dreams in a terrible way and left me with a fractured heart. In August of 1990 when we returned to America, my new struggle was to teach my children how to survive in this ragged and racist culture and "it was, what it was."
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<br />And yet, somehow, somewhere, deeply planted inside my soul was the faint memory of Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr’s Dream. A dream that foretold that "One day a man would be judged by the content of his character and not the color of his skin."
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<br />The years passed quickly, my children became adults, and I vaguely recall watching a young man they called Barack Obama, deliver the Dr. Martin Luther King message at a downtown bank where I worked during the 80's. At the time I remember thinking, "Wow, he's kinda different, interesting, where did he come from?" In the coming years I watched this young, big-eared man rise slowly in stature; he rose quietly, undergirded by a substance and a groundswell that almost appeared mystical. I watched him become a Senator and I watched him wearing an awkward, overstarched black bandana, cheerfully squeezing mustard on hotdogs, laughing and serving attendees at a Chicago Father's Day celebration. I watched as he moved politically as an unblemished blur. And amidst rumors, I recall the day that he announced that he would run for the office of President of the United States. That's when I heard it. The voice, the still, small one. It said very clearly, "honey, when he runs, he's gonna win, support him!"
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<br />I recall the day that he announced that he would enter the presidential race and it struck me that there was a quality about him that said he was different from all other politicians, and again I heard the still small voice cry out absurdly, “support him, he is the one, he will win.”
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<br />And yet I have come to trust this voice, because it has never, ever, steered me wrong. It was the same voice that has foretold the sex of each of my children before their births. It was the same small voice that spoke to me and told me to flee Liberia a day before our area was overrun by rebel soldiers, it was the voice that told me on the 4th of July 1993 that I was going to win a brand new Ford Probe!
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<br />I said to anyone who would listen, “support him, he will win. Forget the polls, forget the trends. He is our next president!" At first even my closest friends, former Black Nationalists, civil righters, militants, were hesitant, but I just always knew.
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<br />My ultimate revelation would come on <strong>Tuesday, November 4th </strong>when Barack Obama was elected as the 44th President of the United States of America! Yet it took a few additional weeks before I had this revelation. Before it dawned on me that although my family had been forced to flee Liberia; forced to abandon my dream of setting down roots for future generations in Liberia, the Universe knew that my soul needed to be in America, sitting on my living room sofa with my grand daughter, when Americans of many ethnic backgrounds, rose up in consciousness and elected the first man of color, as the President of the United States.
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<br />Each day that I live, I am awed by the fact that as human beings we think we know so much. We think we can predict the outcome of situations with our logic and with numerical formulas, but in reality, we don’t know anything at all. Who could have predicted, except Dr. King, that the landscape of America could change so dramatically between 1979 and 2008 that it would be possible to have a man of color elected the leader of the free world.
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<br />My favorite symbol is GNAME, a Ghanian Adinkira Symbol that means <strong>"no one knows the beginning or ending of anything, except God."</strong> Indeed!Ahnydahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03759831640387657168noreply@blogger.com8